The twins try to talk to him after dinner, following him into his office before Victoria can intercept. "Daddy," Maya says, her voice small and hopeful. "Do you remember, Mommy? What she looked like?

How she used to make us pancakes on Saturdays." Marcus looks at them with tired, unfocused eyes. "Your mother left, sweetheart. She couldn't handle being a parent.

It's better this way." "Victoria takes good care of you." "But daddy," Meera presses. "Don't you miss her? Don't you wonder where she is?"

Marcus' expression flickers, something like pain crossing his face. Then it's gone, replaced by the blank fog. Victoria takes good care of us, he repeats, like a programmed response. Don't ask about your mother anymore.

It upsets Victoria when you bring her up. The dismissal hurts worse than anything. Their father, who once loved their mother so deeply, now speaks about her like she's a stranger he barely remembers. Victoria appears in the doorway.

Girls, bedtime now. Her voice brooks no argument. They kiss their father good night and head upstairs, but Maya lingers on the landing, watching through the railings. Victoria closes the office door and through the frosted glass, Maya sees her father slump forward, head in hands.

Is he crying, remembering, fighting against whatever drugs Victoria is giving him? Maya can't tell. She goes to their room where Meera is already in her pajamas, clutching their mother's journal that they'd smuggled out of the attic months ago. It's the only thing of their mother's Victoria didn't manage to destroy.

They read it sometimes when they miss her, tracing their fingers over her handwriting, trying to remember her voice. Tonight, they need it more than ever.

The next morning, Christmas preparations are in full swing. Victoria's wealthy white friends arrive for brunch, their luxury cars filling the circular driveway. The house smells of expensive catering, floral arrangements that cost more than most people's monthly rent. Maya and Meera are dressed in matching velvet dresses Victoria chose.

Their hair painfully pulled into tight buns that make their scalps ache. They're paraded into the sun room where Victoria's friends gather. Women in their 40s and 50s wearing pearls and judgment in equal measure. Girls, say hello to Mrs.

Whitmore and Mrs. Peton. Victoria commands.

They obey, offering polite smiles and rehearsed greetings. Mrs. Whitmore, Victoria's mother, looks them over with barely concealed disdain. Victoria, dear, you're a saint for taking in Marcus' children. Such a burden after their mother abandoned them.

Mrs. Peton nods enthusiastically, sipping mimosa. You've done wonders. They're so well behaved for well, you know, the pause is heavy with meaning. The twins understand perfectly, for black children, for kids who don't belong in this wealthy white neighborhood, for charity cases.

Victoria plays her role perfectly, placing a hand on each twin's shoulder and squeezing just hard enough to hurt without leaving marks. It's my Christian duty. These poor girls needed structure, guidance, a proper upbringing. Their mother was so, how do I say it?

Unprepared for the responsibilities of motherhood. The lies flow smoothly from Victoria's lips. The twins stand there silent, knowing any protest will result in punishment later. They've learned to survive in this house by becoming invisible, speaking only when spoken to, never contradicting Victoria in front of her friends.

After the brunch guests leave, the twins help clean up, carrying dishes to the kitchen under Victoria's watchful eye. Once she's satisfied, she dismisses them. Go play in your room. Your father and I have shopping to do for tonight's gala.

Don't touch anything. Don't make a mess. And stay away from my study. The moment Victoria and their father drive away, the twins spring into action.

They remember something important. Last year, before Christmas, their father showed them letters supposedly from their mother. He'd been crying, holding the pages like they were precious artifacts. She still thinks about you, he'd said, tears running down his face.

She just can't come back. She's not well enough. The letters are kept in his office safe. The twins know the combination because they watched him open it once, memorizing the numbers.

0815 August 15th, their mother's birthday. They slip into the office, closing the door quietly behind them. The safe is built into the wall behind a painting of a sailboat, one of Victoria's tasteless additions to the house. Maya lifts the painting down carefully and Meera works the combination.

The safe clicks open. Inside are important documents, some jewelry, a stack of cash, and beneath everything, a bundle of letters tied with string. Maya pulls them out carefully, five letters total, dated over the past 2 years. The first is dated 3 weeks after their mother disappeared.

The postmark says Paris, France. My dearest girls, the letter begins. I'm so sorry I had to leave. I wasn't well.

I was having thoughts that scared me, feelings I couldn't control. Your father tried to help, but I need to heal on my own. Please don't be angry with me. I love you more than anything, but I can't be the mother you deserve right now.

I hope someday you'll understand. All my love, mommy. The second letter, dated 6 months later, has a London postmark. It talks about therapy, about working through issues, about missing them terribly but needing more time.

The third letter from Barcelona mentions how beautiful Spain is, how she's learning to paint, how she thinks of them everyday. The fourth and fifth letters, both from Paris again, are shorter, more distant. They mention possibly visiting someday when she's fully recovered, but there are no concrete plans, no real details. Maya reads them carefully, and something feels wrong.

The handwriting is beautiful, consistent, flowing, but their mother was left-handed. Her writing always slanted backward, the letters hooking in a distinctive way. These letters slant forward. The penmanship is too perfect, too careful.

It doesn't look natural. It looks practiced. Meera examines the postmarks using a magnifying glass from their father's desk drawer. The stamps are smudged, the postmarks unclear.

Some of the ink looks too fresh, not faded like stamps that traveled across an ocean should look. She points this out to Maya, who nods grimly. These letters might be fake, but why would someone forge letters from their mother and who? They dig deeper into the safe.

Beneath the letters, they find their parents' marriage certificate, their mother's passport with no exit stamps after the date she supposedly disappeared, and a legal document that makes their blood run cold. It's a postnuptial agreement dated 3 months before their mother vanished. The document states that if Marcus and Simone Thompson divorce, Marcus retains full custody of the children and all marital assets. Simone gets nothing.